Archive | dark

I sat down at my altar today (well, yesterday, now that it’s past midnight) and bawled. I’m in the middle of something- trying to decide the eternal question: in the midst of what appears to be no change, do I keep pushing for what I want, or accept that the Universe is telling me ‘no’ ?

I hate this fucking question. Especially because, with this particular experience, I’ve never taken so many risks to get what I want. I’m not a risk-taker; this whole thing has made me grow in uncomfortable ways. I ask for very little in this world- I usually take what’s handed to me and make the best of it; but this I want and this I asked for. And with each step forward on my part, I can’t tell if it’s getting better or worse. Hope makes me blind. And that is why I sat at my altar and cried today.

If you can’t sit at your altar and cry, you need to get a better sacred space or a better path. Our sacred space is the container for all of our humanity. (I think there might be a bigger series on this I want to write…stay tuned.) My humanity needed guidance and nourishment after the cry, so I turned to my iPod oracle. I held it in my hands, looked at its pixelated face, and said, “tell me where I am and what to do.” (This is one of my languages for God.)

Please don’t go, I’ll eat you whole
I love you so, I love you, so I love you so
Please don’t go I’ll eat you whole
I love you so, I love you so, I love you so, I love you so

[ feel free to watch the video so you can hear the song, but the video and the lyrics do not hold the same meaning, even by the group’s account.]

::: ::: ::: :::

I am probably the only person over 40 who likes alt-J. Whatever. Their word play makes my brain so very happy. I started out feeling sad when this song came on because it’s about not being able to let go. Seeing and feeling the picture of the universe as this song played- I believe it means there is more to what I am hoping for. That I should stay and let the energy continue on. I don’t want to go, in my deepest heart of hearts. Not yet. But maybe that’s what I have to learn anyhow- the spinning out and the spinning back in until I’m ready to let go.

There will come a time when I need to let go- if nothing happens, nothing moves forward. I’m getting better at detecting when that is, taking less time to suffer as I make that decision (I’m finally learning!). But it’s not today for this particular experience.

II. Trip Through Your Wires | U2

In the distance, she saw me comin’ round
I was callin’ out, I was callin’ out.
Still shakin’, still in pain
You put me back together again.
I was cold and you clothed me, honey
I was down, and you lifted me, honey.

Angel, angel or devil?
I was thirsty
And you wet my lips.
You, I’m waiting for you
You, you set my desire
I trip through your wires.

I was broken, bent out of shape
I was naked in the clothes you made.
Lips were dry, throat like rust
You gave me shelter from the heat and the dust.
No more water in the well
No more water, water.

Angel, angel or devil?
I was thirsty
And you wet my lips.
You, I’m waiting for you
You, you set my desire
I trip through your wires.

Oh I need, oh I need
Oh I need, oh I need it.
Oh I need, oh I need
All I need, yeah, yeah!

Thunder, thunder on the mountain
There’s a raincloud
In the desert sky.
In the distance
She saw me comin’ round
I was callin’ out
I was callin’ out.

::: ::: ::: :::

As I danced this song, also a surprise, the right side of my body, the masculine side, was full of navy blue energy. Proper, correct, organized, logical. And the left side of my body, the feminine side, was full of aliveness- blood veins and vessels in all their pink, red, pulsing glory. Who is the angel? Who the devil? Neither; they don’t oppose each other anymore, at least not in this body. I’ve tasted what I want, a thirst is being quenched, and I want more. I’ll gladly trip through these wires.

III. Beautiful | Mali Music

It’s a blessing to see people
With their heads up to the sky still
‘Cause honestly for the same people
Life can be so real
I’m amazed by all your strength, I am
And I’m grateful you come through yeah, yeah
So I take this time to stop a moment
And show my gratitude
For you I

I put my lighter in the air for you
I see whatch’u doing, yeah I see whatch’u go through
Put my lighter in the air, the truth is you’re beautiful, beautiful
Now put your lighter in the air for us,
Everybody singin’ together, sing a new song
Put your lighter in the air for love is beautiful, beautiful

Many mighty ships are sinking
Many stars are falling down
And I count it as a blessing
That you hold me up now

I can tell that you’ve been praying
My whole life has turned around, yeah yeah
And I can’t go without saying
That I thank God for you all now
Eh, for you I

I put my lighter in the air for you
I see whatch’u doing, yeah I see whatch’u go through
Put my lighter in the air, the truth is you’re beautiful, beautiful

Now put your lighter in the air for us,
Everybody singin’ together, sing a new song
Put your lighter in the air for love is beautiful, beautiful

So much to trust with my intuition today. The gray showed itself first- and I had to remember that the gray is where anything can happen. The gray is potential. A sliver of orange appeared next. I asked, “what orange is this?” Was it the orange of my altar candle flame? The orange of a sunset? No, it’s the orange of fire embers, Life said. And then the blue of his eyes. I have seen two blues- the clear, sharp, open blue that is like the sky in the summer and the steeled, darker blue- like denim or the Pacific ocean- when he is angered or disgusted. This was the clear blue. I don’t know what it all means, but it felt open and free and I felt happy. I hope it means there is a new song to sing.

As if to convince me further, the iPod then queued up 99 Luftballoons in the original German. A joke only my iPod and I would get. Yes, I get what you’re saying, Life.

::: ::: ::: :::

Ya’ll, I don’t know what the fuck will happen (who does?). I’ve no clear sense of what my intuition and spirit are guiding me towards. But I know that I want to hope. That might be due to my personality- it always hopes for the best. But I also hope this oracle and the images are telling me to stay the course. I tried to let go today and found out I’d rather have the pain of a small connection than the pain of lost connection. Maybe this is all just confirmation of that understanding. I don’t know. But I know I’m not ready to leave it behind yet.

[Was gonna start by apologizing and/or explaining my weirdness. Not gonna do that. Anymore. Ever. You’re either here cuz you like my shit or you go away. Simple. And it means I don’t have to explain myself. I’m weird and it makes me great; deal if you don’t like it.]

Sometimes I think about what I want to happen at my funeral.

I worked in a nursing home for three years as an undergrad. In grad school I worked at an HIV clinic and a dialysis unit. I watched bodies fall apart. I saw death.

And this frightens the fuck out of a lot of people. You have to be strong to handle the reality of death, I suppose. But the fact is, when you’ve seen it, you don’t really need strength, you just know it’s a thing that happens. In any case, I don’t feel somehow especially strong because I have seen death up close- I just feel like I got the chance to see the whole picture.

I have been given the gift of knowing that – short of being hit by a bus on any given day – I will live to either the age of 76 or 84. I am hoping for the long game. And that means that at my next birthday I will officially be halfway towards death. This makes me think about my funeral sometimes.

[Side note: I don’t actually think of my life as ‘half lived’ yet. We spend the first 20 years of life just getting to where we can take care of ourselves. So, I feel like I’ve lived 1/3 of my ‘awake and aware’ life. And I still have 2/3 left to go. Forty-two more years of knowing I’m alive and living is really a very long time.]

I will most definitely make them play “Mysterious Ways” by U2 (I have officiated 2 memorial services and they were kinda boring- I don’t plan on doing that). And the people in the chairs will have to endure either the entirety of “The Prayer Cycle” by Jonathan Elias or selected bits from it. And “Patient Eyes” from P.M. Dawn (it’s going to be a 90s music-fest at my funeral).

I would like to have someone read a favorite bit by L.M. Montgomery, but I haven’t decided what yet. Most certainly there will be a poem or two from William Stafford (his poem, “Epiphany” will always be a favorite). I have recently thought that I’d like to read them on video and play the video so people could hear and see me one last time. Mary Oliver might also make the list. I’d like a passage written by Elizabeth Lesser to be read and some chapters from the Tao te Ching.

I have also thought about making a video to play where I just sit there and say, “I love you” to everyone. Because that would be the truth. I might also make a list of the people who took more from me than they knew they should, but then I would say, “I forgive you” – because it would be true. Even if they were dicks. I would want to console everyone there by saying I loved them. But I think the living need not to see the dead person so alive, so this is still on the back burner.

One thing that happened this week is that I found a song I wanted to add to the list for my funeral. It’s “Kill Your Heroes” by AWOLNATION. I’ve listened to it a hundred times (iTunes says 68 times, actually), but something about it struck me more deeply this week. That I wanted to play that song, loud:loud:loud, as the last song before we left the place. And I wanted to play it because it reminded me of what it is to live.

I came alive a bit more this week. I reached out for a connection and felt really alive in taking that action. It didn’t work, more due to a giant misunderstanding (about what I was asking for) and cultural differences than anything, I think. But it made me feel so alive.

I know what it feels like, in my body, to risk. To have my heart beat wildly because I am unsure of how things will go. (I usually only make calculated risks.) But this week- I jumped. I felt what it was to be seen as a fool. I felt what it was to know what I wanted and go after it. I felt the fear and did it anyway.

And it was scary as fuck. I probably blew out my adrenals, I had so much adrenaline rushing through me. But, goddamn, it was wonderful and beautiful and I wouldn’t mind doing it again a few hundred times before I die.

I know that when I get to death, I want to regret as little as possible. And that means risking. And now I know it’s worth the risk, no matter what the outcome is. We all die. We might as well go out with the widest hearts we can- wide because we have opened them to what we want, to asking, to hope, to possibility. We might as well risk, rather than regret.

“Well I met an old man dying on a train/ No more destination, no more pain/ Well he said, “One thing, before I graduate/never let your fear decide your fate.”

I say you kill your heroes and fly, fly, baby don’t cry/ No need to worry ’cause, everybody will die/ Every day we just go, go, baby don’t go/ Don’t you worry, we love you more than you know.”

I grew up with an emotionally manipulative parent. It took years for me to understand that the reason I was so good in a crisis situation and so good at helping others was because I’d learned to help my parent (and, more truthfully, my family members who were also dealing with that parent) in emotionally charged situations. Emotional charge felt ‘normal’ to me, because I’d been through it so often, and therefore I could function efficiently and effectively in it when others couldn’t.

These situations also taught me to be kind and supportive and love people unconditionally, because I didn’t receive those things in a way that I felt them easily. (Which is to say, parents can give love in many ways, but kids don’t always receive it. Know your kids, their personalities, and their love languages.) From early on, I had a drive to get out of my house. I have a drawing from second grade that says, “Someday I will…get married so I can live in my own house.” (Six year-old me wasn’t a feminist yet.)

Growing up inside emotional manipulation also helped me become as straightforward and honest with people as I possibly could be. I know the pain and damage manipulators can cause, so I try not to be one. I try to be as honest with myself about what’s going on, what I feel, what I need, and what I want so that I can express that thoughtfully to others (with care and clean edges). There is no hidden meaning behind what I say or ask for- hidden agendas just cause confusion and pain.

And yet, I am sure I still emotionally manipulate people sometimes. I know I do because there are times when I revisit a conversation (which I do about 10,000 times because I’m an INFJ) and realize I did something emotionally manipulative. I read and edit my emails several times so that I’m not being emotionally manipulative (and yet, I’m sure some things still get through). I feel like an asshole when it happens and always try to do better.

One of the strange things is, though, that I still don’t necessarily see or hear emotional manipulation when it’s coming from others. To this day, my partner has to say, “Don’t let this [situation or person] emotionally manipulate you.” And sometimes I still don’t know what that looks or sounds like. It’s very much as if he’s saying, “Look, that’s a foreign language that we don’t speak,” but to me it is native tongue and so easy to speak I don’t even recognize it as foreign. Unlearning this language is tough business.

I wonder if it is like this for all who suffer trauma.

Does this ‘foreign’ language get so ingrained – because of young age or simple repetition – that we see it as ‘normal?’ I think, probably, yes.

And when we find a way out, when we begin to realize that other emotional, non-traumatic languages exist, it is like moving to another country. I keenly remember the first few times I felt unconditionally loved and safe- it felt like a party in my heart, a healing, a joy. It was a language I wanted to speak and found that I could. Which was both strange and beautiful.

The thing about learning this new language (what others know as ‘normal’) – and sorry to switch metaphors- is that it’s like the fish who realizes it breathes water, and that it is evolving into something that breathes air. That is what I have felt like for years now. That ‘water’ is my native tongue- the emotional manipulation and the life that creates- and that I am evolving to breathe air. But still, water is easy to breathe and I have to be reminded of what it is, of who I am and what I want, so that I do not fall back into the water language of emotional manipulation.

Maybe it’s not trauma that is our native language, but the form of abuse (whether large or small) that causes the trauma which itself feels normal. Abuse is what is done to us, trauma is our response. And when that abuse is repeated, it begins to be habit, and habit is what constitutes ‘normal’ (at any age, pretty much).

Despite my Master’s in Social Work, I’m not sure about this theory. (Actually, I’m sure there’s piles of research and it probably has a name, I just didn’t take the time to go research it.) What I do know is that I’m watching myself and many other people wake up and figure out that something from their past is broken, broken inside them. And as they begin to deal with this wound, they learn that they have been speaking a foreign language for some part of their life. It is only with patience and awareness, forgiveness and soothing, that they begin to speak the language beyond trauma.

Do we ever lose that native tongue entirely? I’m not sure. But I think we can refuse to speak it as much as possible and continue to dig after each root as it shows itself. And perhaps, as we tend to the growth of our healed self, the old language, the trauma language, will lay quietly. Not dead, but no longer bothersome.

Today is All Saints Day for many in the Catholic and Anglican faith traditions. A celebration of the saints who have meant something important to them or their journey.

It is also the Dia de los Muertos in many Spanish-speaking countries (fyi, Dia de los Muertos is not ‘Mexican Halloween;’ it is a holiday all of its own with rich traditions, symbols, and context).

And, of course, last night was Halloween in America, a tradition that was originally about the acceptance of death and the very human desire to flee from it, or to dance with it in the dark.

For me, Halloween also represents the biggest step of the descent into darkness for the circle of the year. I know we are supposed to celebrate the shift into darkness at the Autumnal equinox, but it never feels quite dark enough or cold enough for me. So, yesterday was the doorway into death for this year. This phase is pretty much always the time of year where I learn a life-changing lesson and carry it both down into the depths of my dark heart and then grow up through it into the Spring.

And, in all Life’s wisdom and wit, we were without power for the last 2 days (it finally came back on last night). We have been sitting with pillars of candles on our table, reading and talking (and the kids bored out of their skulls), and noticing the dark and how it seeps in as the sun goes down.

Our electricity- and that of most of our neighborhood- went out with a storm on Sunday, Oct 29. A tree on our property gave its life to one final dance with the electrical wires and an explosive electrical canister. [fwiw, they give off spectacular, blinding blue sparks when hit.]

Yesterday the arborist came to chop up the tree. And while I was glad to have it off the power pole, I also cried as they cut her down, into massive chunks. Her life was truly done and over; the season of death deeply upon us.

I have been thinking about my perspective as an interfaith minister- what ‘interfaith’ means and if it is even a valid idea [I’ll share about that later]- and I don’t want to appropriate any tradition that isn’t mine, but none of the above traditions are mine and I still need a way to honor the darkness of this phase of the year.

Raised Protestant and now living something Tao-Pagan-Buddhist, I’m not sure how to honor this time of year. Samhain (SAH-win) is closest to me genetically (Gaelic…waaaaay back there in the double-helix code) and feels as close as I can get to a Taoist perspective (in harmony with Nature) that feels right with what’s actually happening in Nature.

But, because the veil between worlds is thin at this time of year, I also feel the pull of honoring my dead. And the weight of tradition that comes from honoring saints also appeals. But ‘appealing’ doesn’t mean I can steal it for my own uses.

Can I put these things into the tradition of Samhain? Because it is the end of the year in Nature, can I also give honor to that which as been dead for many seasons- my family, friends, and ‘saints’ of many stripes? If I could, I would expand the definition this way so that the celebration and recognition would encompass all that I need it to. I suppose I need a bigger container for all that I have experienced; perhaps that is why ‘interfaith’ appeals so much.

So today I wanted to honor the end of this year. To remember my dead. To let go of what’s done. And to welcome the dark, cold, fallow time of the year. And to bless those who have blessed me. The list…

My Papa who showed me how to make snapdragons talk and fed me snap peas from the vine.
My great grandma who loved to dress me up and take me out; who also discovered my diabetes.
My islet of Langerhans, dead nearly 36 years.
My great grandpa.
My father-in-law, who never met most of his grandchildren.
The tree from our front yard.
A gaggle of great aunts and uncles who I know watch over all the descendants of Margaret.
Our old house.

I also lay on the altar of death my ideas of who I thought I was.
The part of me who thought she always had to be kind to move ahead.
The belief that some savior is the net for this chaotic world.
My lack of belief in my intuition.
Guessing that I am strong; I know I am, even in my softness and vulnerability.

I name the saints of my life (no one you will recognize, but very important to my journey):
Ms. B who believed in my writing.
Mr. B who opened my mind and showed me symbolism.
Steve B who gave safe boundaries to my budding soul.
Monica and Michelle who told me desire was okay, welcome, gorgeous.
Gabrielle’s son, for showing me how to sweat my prayers.
LMM and William Stafford for the way they wove spells with words.
Jennifer who pioneered self-care for white women.
The town of Exeter, Devonshire for red mud, one-footed ducks, and lessons out the wazzoo.
Seattle- I carry the memories of time that is dead and long gone.

Tonight I will light candles and recognize the dead ones, my own changes, and give thanks to those who have guided me, dead or alive. The end of the year is here and I am ready to lay it down. I will enter the dark with the support of tradition- and the delight of truth.

Last Thursday, May 18th, I sat at my desk at 10 am and took two shots of tequila.*
One for Chris Cornell’s death.
And one for his life.

The life that came through that amazing voice.

::: ::: ::: :::

I haven’t said anything yet, because my grief is not over. Barely begun, honestly. The 3-day emotional cycle of social media is not enough for this death, for me.

Chris Cornell was someone I chose to listen to, a few years after the biggest rush of grunge. I bought Temple of the Dog as one of my 10 CD selections with BMG (only a penny, do you remember that?). It wasn’t a case of being caught up in the music of my generation, it felt more intentional than that. It was an adult purchase, inside of my budding adult sense of myself.

He was important because of his talent, because of his emotions and how much he loved Andrew Wood, because of how his beautiful voice conveyed all of it. But also, for me, because his voice and music fed the seeds of my self.

::: ::: ::: :::

Because I am from Seattle, I have a lot of friends back there, and with Chris Cornell being a son of that city, there were lots of memories.

A former roommate talked about taking a Chem class with Soundgarden’s bassist, Hiro Yamamoto at Western Washington University (my alma mater. I remember when he came back from class to tell us what had happened, how it had been discovered. Great story, not gonna tell you; it’s his business).

Another friend, who I knew had worked for the King County Coroner’s office (but didn’t put two and two together until she shared), talked about being part of the team that catalogued and packed up Layne Stayley’s remains when he was found in 2002 (15 years ago, my god). Another voice that can never be duplicated, lost to drugs. (“So many sharps,” my friend said, “so many.”)

And people who had served Chris Cornell around town. Or seen him in the early years. There was a comedy show in Seattle in the 1990s called “Almost Live” where Billy Nye got his start. Soundgarden was part of “The Lame List” piece once. (See also: ‘High Five-n’ White Guys’ and ‘Chihuly and Jones’ – INFJ’s have a terrible sense of humor.)

Who had not seen him in concert once or twelve times? When Lollapalooza was still a mud fest in what was the backwater of Enumclaw, WA. (For a joke we call it ‘Enum-scratch.’) I listened to each song as people posted their favorites and felt my own connections. I read some reports and some posts (this one is my favorite) about what his music meant. And I thought about why I had included him as one of the first members of the ‘Shiva’ board on Pinterest (which seems a ridiculous thing to say as a Gen-Xer: Pinterest). He embodied the full sense of masculinity to me. He was not afraid of himself. He had his demons, to be sure. But he explored so much of life, of himself- and made beauty from it. I deeply admire that.

I had last seen him when he came to Providence on his solo tour. He was on stage simply to have a good time with music. The kid who sat next to me was not born before 1996, and I took umbrage with his youth, but not with his taste in music. Chris Cornell as a god of both our youths. And there he was, taking requests, also denying requests, and just messing with music until it sounded good to him. He left the stage as a warped chord echoed so loud it hurt. It made your head buzz in the way you knew you would not be able to speak in a normal tone of voice until the next morning.

::: ::: ::: :::

But now, at 42 and with a master’s degree in mental health, one thing in particular stays with me: mid-life masculine depression. Yes, Chris Cornell dealt with depression and anxiety either due to or related to his drug use. But so many men deal with undiagnosed depression at this age. At the very least, it deadens them and kills their relationships, and sometimes their work.

I work with many women whose male partners suffer from depression (which has different symptoms than female depression). Male-specific symptoms of depression include physical ailments, anger, and reckless behavior. Men tend to turn their depression outwards, while women turn it inwards. And, especially for men, treating depression makes them feel inadequate. So they don’t treat it…and their relationships falter or they lose their job…and they feel inadequate so they don’t treat… You see where this goes.

There are a variety of reasons that depression happens in men. We all have inside of us the capacity to have every mental health disorder there is in the book. But the silence of it is what makes it so dangerous for men. As my friend, Jenifer said, “Suicide was stalking him (Chris Cornell) and we couldn’t help. How could we have known suicide was stalking him?” Only if he told us.

And the same is true for those around you. If you suspect you are (or your partner is) depressed, please seek help.There are lots of treatment options, many of which are not pharmaceutical (if that bothers you).

Male mid-life depression is a thing.
Male depression is a thing.
And you can have treatment and support.

The music of your life is deeply valuable to someone. Many more ‘someones’ than you suspect, probably. Your fans want you to live, just as we wish Chris Cornell could have.

::: ::: ::: :::

I think there is more to say about Chris Cornell’s death, but it’s not yet formed. I’ll share it when the time is right. And if you’re mourning- maybe it’s finally time for that trip to Seattle. Here’s my map. Visit ‘A Sound Garden,’ will ya?

Blessed be, Chris Cornell. Rest in peace.

*I’m not given to drinking much. I like a little wine sometimes, and some champagne on New Year’s Day. But Thursday morning I needed the burning gold of tequila running down my throat in the same way the hot tears ran down my cheeks.